One-Click Buy: November Harlequin Presents (23 page)

As soon as she reached the ladies' room, she had them out, writing down the ideas that had come to her. They were exciting and she had to quell the urge to keep playing with them. Peter Ramsey was her top priority today and she didn't want to put him off her. If she hadn't already by tripping somewhere else in her mind.

Not good, Erin chided herself. She'd had the amazing luck to meet an amazing man and what he'd given her so far was much better than any imaginary world. Stupid to put it at risk by acting oddly. Their differences would no doubt end it soon enough, but she'd much prefer it to be later than sooner.

“Giving Peter Ramsey a rating in your little black book?”

The mocking drawl snapped Erin's head around. A beautiful blonde, spectacularly dressed in a Colette Dinnigan creation with a gorgeous fascinator pinned to her hair, was eyeing her with such malicious spite, Erin was momentarily speechless with shock.

“So where did he find you?” the blonde bored in.

Erin swiftly found wits enough to say. “I beg your pardon. Have we met?”

“Since you don't run with the usual crowd and Peter has been steering you clear of me today, no, we haven't. I'm Alicia Hemmings, Peter's very recent ex.”

And obviously smarting from rejection or she wouldn't have sought this confrontation. Erin couldn't help wondering what had caused Peter to end the relationship. Had the designer clothes come from him? Had Alicia Hemmings got too greedy, wanting more and more?

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I know nothing about this.”

“You're obviously very new on the scene,” Alicia jeered.

“Yes,” Erin agreed. “I haven't been in Australia for quite a while.” That left everything nicely vague, nothing for this woman to seize on and tear apart.

“Brought you back from London with him, did he?”

She wasn't going to stop, though whatever satisfaction she was looking for, Erin wasn't about to give it. “This really is none of your business, Alicia,” she said bluntly. “If you'll excuse me…”

“No doubt he swept you off your feet, being a billionaire and all that goes with it,” Alicia mocked as Erin hastily stowed the notebook and pen in her bag. “But let me tell you he's a strait-laced bastard who wants his pound of flesh unblemished, so better give up any dirty little habits you have if you want to hang onto him.”

Curiosity got the better of Erin's sense of discretion. “I don't know what you mean,” tripped off her tongue.

“Oh, come on. The London party scene is rife with ecstasy and cocaine. I've been there, done that.”

“And Peter doesn't do drugs?”

“Squeaky clean, darling. A total control freak. And no patience with anyone who isn't.” A nasty smile curled her mouth. “Just thought I'd warn you what you're in for.”

“Thank you,” Erin said, curiosity completely satisfied.

Apparently Alicia was satisfied enough with having delivered her piece of poison to let Erin make her exit from the ladies' room without throwing any more nasty darts. No doubt she had been all sweetness and light with Peter, doing her utmost to hang onto him, and was bitter about having been caught out indulging herself with designer chemicals. He was well rid of her, Erin thought. And she didn't mind one bit about Peter being a control freak—being inclined that way herself—as long as he didn't try to control her.

It was one thing to choose, quite another to be pressured into complying with someone else's will.

Peter had been completely fair in his dealings with her so far. Even last night on the balcony of his Bondi Beach penthouse…she paused for a moment, her thighs squeezing together at the exciting memory of being touched so erotically, touching him, her stomach contracting as her mind relived being totally out of control with the wild, hungry passion he'd evoked in her.

Her heart actually quivered as she caught sight of him breaking from a group of people, his vivid blue eyes trained purposefully on her as he made his way to where she stood. Her entire body seemed to hum with pleasure at just this minor connection with him. He was such a magnificent man, and as fabulous as he looked in his superb suit, Erin couldn't help mentally stripping him of it, revelling again in his splendid physique. She wanted him. Again and again and again.

Her consciousness was so swamped by the desire he stirred, she didn't pick up his tension until he was right in front of her, his eyes searching hers with sharp intensity. “Are you okay, Erin?”

“Yes, I'm fine,” she quickly assured him, belatedly recalling her distraction with the horses and hoping he would let it slide.

“You weren't subjected to an unpleasant scene in the ladies' room?” The hard, ruthless edge to his voice woke her up to the fact he was bristling from his failure to protect her from his ex.

“Oh, that!” She smiled, relieved at hearing the different concern, and loving his caring for her. “No problem, Peter. Though I'd have to say your ex is not a very nice person.”

His grimace was both rueful and apologetic. “I saw Alicia hot-footing it to the ladies' room but was too far away to run interference.”

“Don't worry about it.” She stepped forward, hooking her arm around his. “Let's go back to the terrace. It must be time for the next race.”

“You're not bothered by anything she said?” he asked, falling in with the suggestion and hugging her arm tightly to his side as they moved on together.

She slanted him a teasing look. “Should I be?”

He frowned. “I like to get things sorted, Erin. Clear the air.”

His tension hadn't eased. Erin realised a blithe dismissal of her encounter with Alice Hemmings was not relieving it. Peter didn't want to be left wondering about what had transpired between them. Which was fair enough, given that the idea of being bad-mouthed behind one's back wasn't exactly palatable.

“As far as I'm concerned, it was all good,” she assured him, rolling her eyes in amusement as she elaborated. “Alicia called you a squeaky-clean control freak who doesn't tolerate dirty little habits like recreational drug-taking.”

His mouth took on an ironic quirk. “You thought that was good?”

“Well, since squeaky-clean certainly appeals, and I have no inclination to tamper with how my brain works with mind-altering drugs, the only question mark hovers over the control bit, but I haven't found you freaky yet, so I'm willing to ride with my own judgement until it's proved wrong,” she flipped at him.

“Thank you,” he said mock seriously, then laughed as though delighted with how her brain worked, his blue eyes sparkling so brightly, so appreciatively, Erin felt his pleasure in her filling her heart with happiness, making it swell with happiness.

And the realisation hit her…she was falling in love with Peter Ramsey. It was more than a strong physical attraction. She wasn't going to be able to write off this connection with him as
an experience
and just move on with her own life. She wanted him with an intensity that was suddenly frightening.

Panic swirled through her mind.

She wouldn't fit into his life.

He wouldn't fit into hers.

Then overriding the panic came a fierce resolution.

Take now, and spin now out for as long as it feels right.

T
HE
irritating buzz of the bedside telephone woke him. Peter quickly reached out and snatched up the receiver, not wanting Erin to be disturbed from her sleep. It had been a long night of the most sensual sex he'd ever experienced. The desire they stirred in each other was incredibly mutual and he wanted her to stay in his bed as long as he could keep her there.

The clock-radio read one minute past eight. His mother was nattering away on the telephone line. He muffled the voice noise with his hand as he slid swiftly from Erin's side and strode out of the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath to quell his sharp annoyance at being called this early on a Sunday morning. If it wasn't his mother…

He lifted the receiver to his ear and couldn't quite keep an impatient terseness out of his voice as he demanded, “What's up, Mum? Some emergency?”

A blank silence, then, “Haven't you been listening, Peter?”

“I'm barely awake,” he said on an exasperated sigh.

“Then you don't know that you and Erin Lavelle are front page news? They've even used a full colour photograph!”

“Oh, for pity's sake! Haven't they got better things to report than spotting me with a new woman.” He remembered photographers clicking away when his horse had won its maiden race and in the excitement of the win, he hadn't thought to shield Erin from them.

“But she isn't just any new woman, is she, dear?” his mother drawled pointedly.

“What do you mean by that?” he growled. Had the gossip merchants spun some stupid story about her? Something that would embarrass her at the preschool?

“I'd love to meet her, Peter. Do bring her out to lunch with us today.”

His mother's enthusiasm struck an extremely false note. She didn't hand out invitations at the drop of a hat. “Why do you want to meet her, Mum?” he asked warily. “We've only known each other a couple of days.” Usually he had to be attached to a woman for months before his mother began taking an interest in her.

“Darling, you go to any children's wards in any hospital and Erin Lavelle's books are there by the dozen. Her stories whisk even the sickest children off to a better place. They love them. Why wouldn't I want to meet the author who can make them forget their misery?”

The author…

It took Peter's mind several dazed moments to connect with this stunning information. Erin was not a preschool teacher. Her aunt ran the school and Erin had been with her in the park, but she'd been there to tell the children a story—a story they loved—a story she had written herself!

She knew he had assumed she worked at the school. Why not set him straight? He'd brought up the Princess of Evermore at the Thai restaurant—
one of her favourite stories,
she'd said—the perfect opening to tell him the truth. And yesterday at Randwick, when the director's wife had queried her on her name, she could have explained to him afterwards that Erin Lavelle meant more than just a name to a hell of a lot of other people. Or when the horses had set her imagination running…she could have laid it out then. He'd
asked
her to.

He hated deception. What point was there in Erin hiding what she did? He wouldn't have thought less of her. Yet she had deliberately held back on revealing her full identity. Over and over again!

“Peter?” his mother pushed, impatient with his silence.

He dragged his mind back to the lunch invitation. “I'll have to discuss it with Erin, Mum.”

“Of course. Get back to me as soon as you can, dear.”

He re-entered his bedroom, checked that Erin was still fast asleep, grabbed a pair of shorts from his dressing room, pulled them on, then moved out again to ride the elevator down to the lobby of the apartment complex where he could pick up the Sunday newspaper that had uncovered Erin's literary career.

No mistaking it.

The front page carried a full colour photograph of Erin stroking the horse that had won its maiden race—his horse—with himself standing by, smiling at her. The dip of her hat partially hid her face. Had she been aware of cameras clicking and turned aside to maintain privacy? Though apparently her name had been enough to set bells ringing in some reporter's head.

The headline read—
Famous Reclusive Author, Erin Lavelle, Outed By Peter Ramsey.

Famous…
not to him because he'd taken no interest in children's books since he was a child himself.

Reclusive…
that could explain her reluctance to open up about herself, but why was she reclusive? Most authors surely courted publicity to promote their books.

Once back in his penthouse, Peter took the newspaper into his study and flipped over the pages to the cover story. Erin Lavelle's first book had been phenomenally successful world-wide, spawning a huge market for character toys and games from the story she had created. Subsequent books had enormous print-runs, selling out almost as soon as they hit the shelves. But she had not granted any interviews since the flurry of publicity over the first book, preferring to keep her life absolutely private. Her agent had quoted her as saying, “My stories speak for themselves.”

There was the usual garbage about him—women he'd been involved with. According to the reporter, only his billionaire status could have drawn Erin Lavelle out in public with him. Which was ridiculous. She had to be very wealthy in her own right. More likely she hadn't realised that being at Randwick with him would put her privacy at risk.

Different worlds…

Needing to know more about hers, he switched on his computer and did an Internet search on her name. She did not have a personal Web site but he got hits on her publisher's site, her agent's site and the marketing company, which had profitably exploited the popularity of her stories. Erin Lavelle was big business for a lot of people. Yet rather than bask in the spotlight of fame she had retreated to live in the shadows.

She wasn't going to like being front page news.
I have the right to keep my private life private.
Fair enough, he reluctantly conceded, but the fact that she had kept her fame hidden from him—repeatedly—despite the intimacy they had shared—could mean only one thing. She viewed him—had from the start—as a very temporary item in her life, a brief side play that was never going to move to centre stage.

Frustration welled up in him. He wanted answers and he wanted them right now. Tense, angry, determined on confrontation, he grabbed the newspaper and charged upstairs with it, flinging the bedroom door open, only to be frustrated further by finding his bed empty of the woman he wanted to pin down.

Had she done a flit while he was in the study?

No, her clothes were still strewn around the floor. They'd been so hot for each other after the races, the only thought they'd had about clothes was to get them off. Did she only want him for the sex?

“Erin!”

He heard the harsh demand in his voice and told himself to calm down. Nothing was ever gained with an intemperate manner. She had to be in the bathroom. Any moment now she would come out…

The ensuite door opened.

She stepped into the bedroom, a towel draped around her body, droplets of water still clinging to her bare arms and legs, and her rainbow smile beaming at him, churning him up even further.

“Hi! I was just drying off. Woke up, found you gone, thought I'd have a shower.” Her gaze dropped to his hand. “Been out buying a newspaper?”

Everything about her seemed so natural. The urge to just shunt aside this whole identity issue and sweep her back into bed with him pumped through his body. But his mind insisted she had lied to him—lied by omission. How far would she have taken the deception?

“My mother called. Asked me to bring you to lunch with her,” he said, wanting to see Erin's reaction to the invitation.

“Your mother?” It was a shock. Then came a puzzled frown. “When did you speak to her about me?”

It was impossible to tell if she was pleased or not at the prospect of meeting his family. Peter gave up trying to read her mind and tossed the newspaper on the bed, the front page carrying its own glaring message.

“She saw this!”

This…

Erin felt his anger. It was like an iron hand squeezing her heart. She knew something was terribly wrong even before her gaze fastened on the full page photograph and its telling caption. Then the realisation hit her with sickening certainty that the wonderful idyll with Peter Ramsey was over.

He didn't like her being a famous author.

He didn't like her being made the focal point of whatever story had been concocted in this newspaper, taking the limelight he was undoubtedly used to.

It always got to men.

They pretended it didn't for a while but it always did.

A savagely mocking voice told her Peter Ramsey was no different, despite the ego-bulwark of his billions. He wasn't big enough to accept everything about her, after all.

She flicked him a wry look. “I guess you liked the idea of Cinderella better.”

“Not particularly,” he shot back at her, his face hardening at her comment on him. “I prefer honesty to role-playing.”

“You started the role-playing, Peter,” she reminded him. “Offering to be my prince. And I let myself be sucked into it because I really did think you might be.”

A muscle in his cheek contracted. His eyes blazed with fierce resentment. “You knew what you were getting, Erin. I didn't bypass any important facts about me.”

“Who really knows anybody?” she muttered derisively.

There were always—
always—
things hidden—things that came out to bite you when some emotional trigger was hit. She'd been subjected to this kind of angry man pride before and knew there was no fixing it, short of giving up writing and becoming a satellite to
his
interests. Erin gritted her teeth. Not even for this man would she give up her essential self.

She turned aside to gather up her clothes, and the David Jones bag that held what she'd worn on Friday night. Better to make her exit in the latter outfit, since yesterday's made her too recognisable to anyone who'd seen the newspaper photograph. Which reminded her of the invitation it had instantly brought.

“I bet your mother wouldn't have wanted to meet me if I wasn't
the author,
” she slung at Peter who was watching her, his hands clenched at his sides, wanting to fight, but thwarted by a truth he couldn't deny.

Having picked up everything she needed Erin headed back towards the ensuite bathroom. Her legs were like jelly but she forced them to take the necessary steps away from the tension-laden atmosphere of the bedroom—a bedroom that had been full of glorious pleasure last night, but which promised only pain this morning.

“Damn it, Erin! You could have told me!” he hurled after her.

She glanced back over her shoulder, her chin lifting defiantly at his angry challenge. “That would have changed your view of me. As it just has.”

“Blocking out a big part of you creates a false view,” he argued vehemently. “Why not give me the full picture?”

“Because one way or another it has tainted every relationship I've had since the roller-coaster success of my first book.” Her eyes mocked his lack of understanding. “I avoid the zoo, Peter, because I don't like being the performing monkey, and that's all people like your mother want of me.”

“That's not true! My mother would have respected any line you drew.”

“Then I hope you'll do the same, because I'm drawing the line on us right now.”

She stepped into the bathroom and quickly closed the door, leaning her head against it as a wave of nausea rolled through her. She hated being
the author.
Hated it, hated it, hated it. Yet there was no turning back the clock and she couldn't deny that she loved writing the stories—the excitement of coming up with a new idea, the joy she had in putting the right words together, creating the rhythm that made the story flow so captivatingly.

It was a big part of her.

But there was the other part—the lonely child who'd wanted someone to love and cherish her.
The author
had grown out of that child, spinning dreams where whatever she wanted did happen. But it had never happened in real life. And wasn't going to happen with Peter Ramsey.

Miserably accepting the inevitable, Erin pulled herself together enough to get dressed and stow the Randwick clothes in the carry bag. As she transferred the contents of the new black handbag to the tan one, her notebook reminded her that at least she had something to move onto. The Mythical Horses of Mirrima should consume her attention for months, giving her a fairly effective escape from brooding over broken dreams.

She took a deep breath, bracing herself to face Peter one last time.
Make it quick,
her mind dictated.
Be dignified, don't cry, and don't get into any further argument. It's over.